Christmas 1967 with the Potters
by welcometonerdworld
Summary: In which James Potter (aged seven) has an exciting Christmas day. "He hated Brussel sprouts. In James' mind, they were just like tiny cabbages, and cabbages were bad enough. Tiny cabbages, well, they just crossed the line." Cover art by andythelemon.


An aged seven James sat straight up in his bed at home.

It was Christmas.

The feeling of realisation shot like an electric current all the way from his head to his fingers to his toes. He bounded out of bed, not bothering to tidy it, for he knew that nothing, absolutely nothing, was as important as dragging his parents out of their bed.

He skipped into the large yet comfortable room that was his parents' and thumped over to their bed. He then proceeded to crawl his way under the covers (making sure to tickle his father's feet) and right to the other end where he snuggled between his parents, hiding his body under the duvet so that only a few tufts of untidy black hair could be seen from the top.

Elbowing his mother, (who he knew, from experience, was the lighter sleeper) he placed an icy cold foot on her leg. This resulted in a shiver and then a groan from Mrs Potter, who turned over to face her small son and muttered blearily, "James? Darling, what is it?"

"It's Christmas, Mum!" James head shot up from under the blankets and faced his mother excitedly. "I love Christmas! Ooh, can we go downstairs? I bet they have Christmas songs on the radio. And we can unwrap the presents! Ah, I just know you're going to like mine. Dad picked it with me. So can we, can we _please_?" He elongated the please and looked up at his mother with a pleading baby face.

Mrs Potter smiled sleepily, "Just get up your father, dear, and then we'll discuss it..." She yawned, cricked her neck, and then unceremoniously placed her head back on her pillow.

James, on the other hand, wasted no time. He knew _exactly_ just how to wake up his dad.

* * *

Not even half an hour later, the three Potters were downstairs in their dressing gowns, sitting beside their oversized Christmas tree. All three of them had smiles on their faces (James' obviously was the largest), and this included a rather disgruntled Mr Potter, who had been woken up by his lovely son screaming a carol with a bucket of freezing water held precariously above Mr Potter's head.

"James," said Mrs Potter tentatively – to say the following to James was like setting off a bunch of fireworks – "You can open a present now."

"FINALLY!" yelled James, his eyes lighting up, "I thought I was going to have to wait for dad to finish his toast!" Here, Mr Potter rolled his eyes and munched contentedly on the said piece of toast.

"Here," said Mr Potter, passing his son a medium-sized present, "Start with this one. It's from your Aunt Beth."

Mr and Mrs Potter hid smiles as James attempted to cover up an eye roll – his Aunt Beth was positively barmy. Nevertheless, James tore into the fancy wrapping paper with gusto and stared at the present in his hands.

James frowned and spoke, "What on earth's this, then?"

In his hands was a glimmering red toy car. Of course, James didn't have a lot of muggle influence in his life, so didn't know this yet.

Mr Potter answered him. "It's a Ferrari, James. Or at least, a small version. Muggles use them, instead of the Floo Network."

James frowned some more, and two lines were etched between his eyebrows as he did so, "A fairy? This isn't a fairy!"

Mrs Potter laughed. "Not a fairy, James, a Ferrari. _Fe-ra-ree_."

"_Fee-raaa-reeeee._" Repeated James. His face broke out into a smile, "Cool!" He carefully put down the toy car beside him and said gleefully, "Your turn, Dad!"

Mr and Mrs Potter smiled at their son weakly. They weren't the youngest of parents – and this was going to be a _very _long day.

* * *

At one thirty, Mrs Potter had finally finished making the humongous Christmas lunch that was to feed the Potters and their two trusty house elves, Linky and Tammy, who had of course helped with the cooking.

The Potter boys sat at the grand dining table and waited impatiently for Mrs Potter to come out of the kitchen. Mr Potter was tapping his foot on the ground whilst James' stomach growled loudly.

Eventually, Mrs Potter came out of the kitchen, proudly holding the roast turkey in front of her.

"That looks great!" exclaimed James, as he almost toppled out of his chair.

"Thank you, Master Potter!" said Linky happily, "We hope you like it! The dessert will be even better, we are sure! It is Master Potter's favourite," she squeaked, and placed some steaming vegetables on the table, alongside the pigs-in-blankets and gravy boat.

The other house elf did the same and then the two bowed and left.

Mr Potter frowned and spoke, "I do wish they'd sit with us. We've only offered five hundred times!" He threw his hands up in the air exasperatedly.

Mrs Potter frowned also, "I know, Charlus. But they feel obliged not too! You and I both know that they're practically part of the family, but—"

She was cut off by a deliberate cough from James.

"Yes, darling?" she asked her son.

"Erm, Mummy, please can I start eating? Only I'm _so _hungry, and we've heard this talk before. Please?" James pouted at his mother.

"Go on then," she smiled indulgently, and James grinned as her frown evaporated,"But remember, you can't have any pudding unless you've had at least three Brussel sprouts!"

James groaned and his grin was quickly replaced by a grimace. He _hated_ Brussel sprouts. In James' mind, they were just like tiny cabbages, and cabbages were bad enough. _Tiny_ cabbages, well, they just crossed the line.

However, James' sensible seven year old mind resolved that, if he wanted to eat any chocolate log at all, three Brussel sprouts was an alright price to pay.

* * *

James smiled sleepily as his father put him into his welcoming bed. After a day of festivities including singing carols, making a snowman, having a snowball fight and playing with all his brand new gifts, James was positively exhausted (not that he'd ever admit it, of course.).

"Had a good one then, James?" Mr Potter ruffled James' hair fondly.

"Excellent." said James happily, "I just can't wait until next year! I'll be eight years old then, Merlin..." He stared into space dreamily.

"Goodnight then," said Mrs Potter softly, kissing her son on top of his head. Mr Potter did the same, and they left the bedroom, leaving young James to only the best of dreams, full of snowmen and chocolate logs and absolutely no Brussel sprouts whatsoever.


End file.
